


Five Stages of Grief

by blueingenue



Category: Moulin Rouge! (2001), Moulin Rouge!: The Musical - Various/Logan
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-01 23:00:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23695051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blueingenue/pseuds/blueingenue
Summary: Christian seems to drag himself through the five stages of grief weeks before Satine's inevitable death. It's as though the world were trying to soften the blow for the young composer desperately clinging to a forbidden love.I've noticed there aren't many fics about the Broadway version, so this fic applies to both the movie and stage production (more closely portraying the stage characters).
Relationships: Christian/Satine (Moulin Rouge!), The Duke/Satine (Moulin Rouge!)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	1. Anger

Christian felt his blood boiling, an unrelenting cadence of unabated rage crashed against his head with every pounding heartbeat. White-hot anger, a hate so blinding he lost all sense of where he was and who he was with until a sudden sharp clap from Santiago to his rehearsal group halted his reverie. Satine stood seemingly at ease, a smile as smooth and disarming as the lipstick swept elegantly across her lips. _No, not elegantly_ , Christian corrected himself, _calculated_ . Everything about Satine was calculated. It had to be, and he understood that. Or rather, he was made to understand that. That’s what these weeks, these _agonizing weeks_ , had been about. She would put on a show, lead the Duke to believe she loved him, and in return he would finance their bohemian show. He knew this is the way things had to be, it just made him so, _so_ …

Christian snapped back to the present, unclenching his fists and staring numbly at the ground. His heel slid against something and he noticed his score laying in a mess of yellowed looseleaf scattered across the weathered floorboards. He bent down to gather them up, shoving them into the depths of his coat pockets, aware they would be crumpled yet too angry to care. Rehearsal continued and nobody noticed as the young composer slipped out of the stage door and into the alley. Outside a sliver of moon shined gently, subdued by passing clouds. Usually he wrote music to keep the whirlwind of emotions at bay, but lately all of his pieces came out angry, rapid. After a full day of struggling to fit choreography to one of his aggressive compositions Santiago had joked that he was picking a fight with the score itself. Thinking of the score made him think of the show, of the stage, of the Duke watching from the wings, eyes flashing, triumphant arm slung around Satine. His Satine. The woman who held him and promised him her heart belonged only to him before walking right into the arms of that, _that_ \- 

He clamped his eyes shut and took a shuddering breath, hands shaking with the effort of restraining the rest of him from marching right back through the stage door and tearing the Duke limb from limb. He loved Satine with everything he had. He loved her more than music itself; he told her so on multiple occasions. She had laughed, not the deep, sultry laugh she used when the Duke snuck her into corners, but a laugh that seemed to flow from her in waves of contentment. A laugh so pure it seemed to tell the world that there was no joke more amusing, or in the instance of Christian's confession, no statement more delightful or deserving of her attention. He could see her smile now, starting gently as her lips parted ever-so-gently, curving up her lips and tucking into the perfectly-placed dimples below the apples of her cheeks, finally reaching her eyes as they crinkled in delight. His Satine. God, he loved her. And she loved him. Christian knew that. Then why was it so difficult to watch her in the arms of a man he knew she despised? It was a useless pursuit, he knew. He'd spent too many nights tossing and turning, laying down to sleep only to drown under wave after wave of agonizing jealousy. Images flashing across his mind, branded into his retinas. They alternated in a vicious cycle with tender memories of her. The Duke gazing lustfully at her in a priceless red dress he insisted she wear, Satine biting her lip and placing a suggestive hand on his leg as they watched rehearsal from the audience. He and Satine gazing at each other as lazy afternoon sunlight dappled their bedsheets and set her dark brown hair alight with streaks of gold. The Duke and Satine leaving arm in arm for dinner and whatever else came after as Christian watched dejectedly from the stage, Satine acting her part, Christian's agony as true and real as the pain he felt now. It was more than he could bear. 

Then he thought of the curtain falling, of the show ending and Zidler getting his money and whispering to Satine to fly as far away as she liked. Nini could take over and become the headliner she'd always dreamed of becoming and Satine could come back and visit anytime. They wouldn't worry about the Duke. Christian had no idea how they would get past him, but right now he didn't care. This thought, this _dream_ , was the only thing keeping him sane. And it would give Satine what she wanted: the chance to become a star and save the Moulin Rouge. There was no line he wouldn't cross for her. For her he would endure anything. Christian took a breath, and then another and another until the fire in his blood burned to a manageable smolder and he smoothed the crumpled music sheets that he'd stuffed into his coat. He straightened his shoulders, smoothed his coat, and put on a smile. If Satine could act, so would he. He turned the stage door handle and stepped back inside.

  
  



	2. Guilt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christian struggles to untangle his feelings as the guilt and anger threaten to tear him to pieces.

A drop of black ink dripped from the end of the fountain pen on to his half-finished score, and it was only then Christian realized that his hand was ever-so-slightly trembling. He took a steadying breath and set down his pen, realizing how tense his body was. He glanced toward the couch where Satine was draped across, one hand holding a richly-bound book while the other delicately turned one of its gilded pages. Christian felt a familiar heat rise to his face as he remembered it must have been a gift from the Duke, and an expensive one at that. He had always admired Satine’s intelligence, not only did she have a talent for socializing, but her taste in classical literature exceeded his own. The first time he noticed her leafing through a beaten copy of _Frankenstein_ , he’d asked her what interested her most about the book. Christian remembered how she’d set down her beloved paperback and turned her full attention on him, a gleam in her eyes he had never seen before. She had a captivating gaze, the flecks of hazel in her warm brown eyes were like the embers in a fire, drawing him in until she had finished lovingly describing the way Mary Shelley criticized the roles women in society were expected to fulfill.

“Shelley wanted readers to see how Victor expected Elizabeth to remain the emotional stronghold and love him unconditionally, despite his selfish nature. She gets her message through by making the man who initially seems to be the protagonist into the monster, and making the ‘monster’ a reflection of man’s tendency to ostracize those they believe to be beneath them” she’d declared.

Christian sat enraptured throughout her explanation of the novel. The empathy with which she described the monster’s plight, her voice charged with passion as she described how the author had drawn inspiration from her husband and turned his mistreatment as fuel for one of the ages greatest stories.

“Now that” she declared as she set the copy back on her sparsely furnished shelf. “Was a powerful woman.”

Christian loved her with everything he had. She was beautiful, brilliant, selfless, a living royalty in every sense of the word. Graceful under pressure and compassionate against all odds, she did everything in her power to protect the younger girls of the Moulin Rouge. He’d often seen her sneak an apple or two away from the picnic basket the Duke had prepared for them and hand the fruit out to some of the younger dancers who couldn’t afford dinner. After days of this, Satine charmed the Duke into catering every rehearsal so that she would never dance on an empty stomach. Christian knew this was part of her plan to help the younger girls all along; she barely touched a thing each time the table was laid out and smiled each time one of the dancers gratefully took a chunk of bread or tucked away an apple.

Christian turned his attention back to the sheets spread out in front of him and his eye caught on the rumpled sheets at the bottom of the pile. Instead of the burning anger he was expecting, he felt a pang of guilt strike him in the chest. At that moment, he felt ashamed. Satine was doing this, _pretending_ to love the Duke for the Moulin Rouge. He knew that she loved him, and he knew that should be enough to quiet the nagging voice in his head, but he just couldn’t help himself. For the first time in weeks he remembered Satine, _his Satine,_ standing with the Duke and felt nothing but cold guilt. 

“I’m just being selfish,” he thought. Satine loved him unconditionally, and who was he to stop her from helping the people and the place she had grown up with? The Moulin Rouge had been her home for as long as she could remember, and what kind of a man would he be if he asked her to let all of it go so that he could rest easy at night? Christian set his jaw and made up his mind. He would do his best not to let on how much this weighed on him. How it was agonizing, eating him alive, burning a hole through his chest…

 _No. Satine deserves better,_ he thought to himself. _Better than I can provide._ He knew it was true. Satine deserved a queen’s life, not a pauper’s. Christian looked down at his tattered sleeves and around at the makeshift furniture scattered about the apartment. The Duke could give her everything she wanted. No. Everything she deserved. _And more,_ he thought dejectedly. 

_Maybe I’m just standing in her way,_ he wondered. The ache in his chest grew tighter and he balled his fists in his lap. He’d always known on some level that he didn’t deserve her. Never mind that she was “The Sparkling Diamond.” She was Satine, and that was more than enough. Beautiful, brilliant, profoundly kind Satine. _And that’s why she deserves better,_ he told himself. 

A rustling from the tattered couch altered him as Satine picked up the coat she’d draped over the arm and slid one arm gracefully into a crimson sleeve. 

“I promise I’ll be back as soon as I can,” she called to him. “Although that may be a bit later than I’d like.”

She said this with an apologetic smile, and Christian wanted to take her in his arms. He wanted to apologize to her, for all of his shortcomings, for all the unfairness life had burdened her with, but instead he mustered as much of a smile as he could and crossed the room and pressed a chaste kiss on her cheek.

“I’ll be right here when you return,” he assured her. He watched as her smile reached her eyes and the tension visibly melted from her countenance. She returned the kiss and slipped out the door, turning back to give him a long, loving glance as the door creaked closed. Christian let out a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding and let the smile fall from his face. He nearly ran to the window, hand pressing against the glass instinctively as he watched the Duke escort Satine into a carriage waiting on the street below. He kissed her hand and she gave him a loving smile, a smile normally saved just for Christian. 

He felt his heart break. There was a hand in his chest squeezing the life from his heart and making it hard to breathe. He turned away from the window as the carriage took off and retreated into the distance, allowing himself to slide down the wall as his head fell forward into his hands. He’d make sure to clean himself up before Satine returned. He felt a sob welling up in his chest and he couldn’t bear to choke it down. It echoed throughout the empty apartment and Christian felt a warm tear slide down his cheek. 

_She loves_ me, he told himself as his body wracked with sobs. _I know she loves me._


	3. Denial

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The night drags on after Satine leaves with the Duke and Christian is left alone with only his thoughts. Santiago and Toulouse try try to scrub her from his mind with the sting of absinthe, but his desperation and longing only push him into a maddening spiral. He arrives at the Duke's house ready to do whatever it takes to win back her love, and leaves with a shattered heart.
> 
> (Note: this chapter takes place directly after "El Tango de Roxanne")

Christian stumbled away from the doors, the gilded railing adorning the stairs was the only thing keeping him from losing his balance and tumbling onto the stone. His vision blurred - wether from the absinthe numbing his senses or the tears rolling down his cheeks he wasn't sure. He couldn't look back, not after what Satine had just said. He couldn't return to the apartment, empty save for Toulouse and Santiago who would not doubt ask him about Sati-

A sob wracked Christian's body and he gasped with the effort of choking down her name. He couldn't say, couldn't even bear to _think_ it. How could she? She said that she loved him. And he loved her. By god, he still loved her. He felt as though his chest was being torn straight down the middle by two unstoppable forces; one urged him to let go before he was hurt again, while the other sunk its claws into his heart and begged him to run back inside. To fall at Satine's feet and doing anything to make things right again. To hold her in his arms and tuck her hair behind her ear as she laughed, and assured him this had all been a bad dream of some kind. A fever dream brought on by stress-wrought nerves and too many sleepless nights spent bent over music scores. He laughed at the thought, a feverish, warped chuckle. Christian's face contorted as a searing pain took hold of his head and he doubled over, holding the nearest wall for support and dry-heaving onto the concrete. Christian stumbled into the narrow alley between the two decaying buildings and felt his legs give way beneath him. He felt as though the absinthe was coursing through his veins; images of their first few, carefree days together swirled around his head, dissolving into oblivion as his new, cruel reality tainted them with an unforgiving sense of desolation. 

He looked around the darkened streets, empty save for the brokenhearted composer sobbing in the filth of another uncaring Parisian alleyway. This couldn't be happening. _This isn't real_ , he desperately whined to himself, the hollow plea echoing in his liquor-addled mind.

"Oh, but it is my darling," a familiar voice crooned. Christian lifted his eyes to an image of Satine sauntering toward him. She was dressed as she had been when they'd first met. The same star-studded dress that graced her frame greeted his eyes and Christian felt an unbearable weight slam into his chest. "Satine..." he wheezed, the grief -and absinthe- making it difficult to move. 

She leaned down and tilted his chin up with a delicately-manicured finger. He knew he should look away, but even in his drunken stupor he knew that the pain of seeing her again, tantalizingly close yet devastatingly cold, was preferable to living the rest of his life having missed his last chance to gaze upon the woman he loved. The weight in his chest intensified as he met her gaze, and seeing her brown eyes, usually so warm and loving, was too much. He gasped and sobbed and reached out with desperate arms, an impossible longing overtaking any semblance of rationality he had left. 

His grasp caught only air and he fell - landing in a shallow, filthy puddle on the concrete. The shock of cold lent him clarity for a moment, just enough time to realize the absinthe was blurring the lines between hallucination and reality. A breeze kissed his ear and he felt Satine's lips just below his jawline. "You should have looked closer at the story you were composing," she sneered. "Nobody could ever love you. I have never loved you."

"Stop...please," Christian croaked. This was more than he could stand. Every word felt like a new shard of glass mutilating his heart beyond repair. 

"No matter where you go, you'll always live with the knowledge that I am safe in another man's arms. How does it feel knowing that he knows how my lips taste?" she laughed. 

"I can't..." he sobbed. Satine pushed him farther into the ground, her carnal smile a sickening caricature of the loving gaze Christian had fallen in love with. "Can't what?" she pressed. "Can't live with yourself knowing every day that I'll wake up in his bed, in his arms, giving him the love you so pathetically thought you deserved?"

"No!" Christian shouted with all the fight left in his battered body. He allowed his head to fall back into the water, too exhausted to lift it. His eyes fluttered open to the spot where Satine had stood tormenting him, but there was only air. A strangled sob escaped his parted lips as the shock of everything he had lost settled into his very bones. He dragged himself into the corner formed by the dumpster and adjacent wall and curled in on himself. The cold night wind whipped at his tattered coat, but he felt none of its bite. He sobbed to himself, unable to comprehend the loss of Satine and too pained to accept that he had lost her. For hours his mind ran cruel laps in dizzying circles until exhausted, he drifted into unconsciousness. 


End file.
